


Kinkmeme Short Fics

by VanillaMostly



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Brother-Sister Relationships, Family, Father-Daughter Relationship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Pre-Canon, Sister-Sister Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 12:30:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 9,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VanillaMostly/pseuds/VanillaMostly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Responses to some prompts on the ASOIAF Kinkmeme Livejournal site. Less than 1000 words each.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Catelyn, Lysa: A While Away

**Author's Note:**

> These were originally posted on asoiafkinkmeme dot livejournal dot com under my username "elalendi"
> 
> Disclaimer: do not own the universe or any of these characters, OR the prompts :D

 

  
**Prompt:**  As girls, Catelyn and Lysa imagine what it might be like to be married.

* * *

“Why is Uncle Brynden mad at Father, Cat?”

 

Lysa was curled up against Catelyn while Catelyn brushed her sister’s hair. The night air was cool and pleasant, and Catelyn was glad she had left the window open.

 

So Lysa had noticed it too. Yes, it was rather strange. Just the other day, Father and Uncle Brynden had been sitting at dinner, talking and laughing and pouring one another drinks, but the next morning they wouldn’t even look at each other. Uncle Brynden’s smile was forced even when little Edmure climbed onto his lap. And Father... he was frowning so much Catelyn worried he would get wrinkles.

 

Whatever happened, Father and Uncle Brynden didn’t want to talk about it. Catelyn knew it must be grown-up business that children shouldn’t nose about. Even so... Catelyn hadn’t meant to, but that night she overheard a little bit of their fight. She had been passing on the stairs, when Uncle Brynden stormed out of Father’s room. “Whatever you say, I am not marrying!” he had shouted before the doors slammed shut. Luckily Catelyn crouched behind the wall just in time before Uncle Brynden saw her.

 

It probably wasn’t very ladylike to gossip behind someone’s back, but Catelyn knew her sister was anxious. All of them loved Uncle Brynden and they had never seen Father and his brother this angry at one another. Catelyn hoped they would patch things up. Especially if the problem was marriage, which seemed pretty silly.

 

When Catelyn told Lysa this, Lysa was quiet for a moment. “Why doesn’t Uncle Brynden want to marry?” she asked.

 

Catelyn shrugged. She was about to say, “Uncle Brynden has his reasons, I suppose,” when Lysa pulled away from Catelyn and Catelyn realized her sister’s bottom lip was trembling.

 

“Is-is marriage so _bad_?” Lysa’s voice was more higher-pitched than usual, her eyes large and frightened.

 

Catelyn didn’t know whether or not to laugh. “No, Lysa, of course it isn’t. Mother and Father were married, weren’t they? We wouldn’t be here if they weren’t.”

 

Lysa nodded. “In the songs people marry and live happily ever after,” she said, looking reassured.

 

But Catelyn wasn’t sure if the songs applied to everyone. She was thinking of the serving girl, Bertha, who was a few years older. Bertha wed a shepherd a few fortnights ago. The shepherd was older than Father. Before her wedding Bertha had been lively and fun, with a penchant for dancing and bawdy jokes, which she sometimes liked to whisper mischievously in Catelyn’s ears. Now, when Catelyn saw Bertha in the halls, she saw a pale-faced Bertha who shuffled along like her feet were made out of lead. She didn’t have jokes for Catelyn any more.

 

“Maybe it’s only happy for people who are in love,” observed Catelyn.

 

“But doesn’t marrying someone make you love them?”

 

“Not...” Catelyn trailed off. Lysa was only seven, Catelyn had to remind herself. “When _you_ marry, Lysa,” said Catelyn with a smile, “it will be someone you love.”

 

Lysa blushed. “Oh...”

 

“Do you have someone already in mind?” teased Catelyn.

 

Lysa blushed even more, but she stood her ground. “Do _you_?” she shot back.

 

Catelyn tapped her chin, pretending to mull over it. Actually, she never did give this prospect much thought. She knew she would marry one day and she wasn’t nearly as opposed to the idea as Uncle Brynden. Father said ladies who married became mistresses of a castle of their own, and looked after the children and the servants. It wouldn’t be so different from her life now. But, well, the idea of marrying _who_ never interested Catelyn very much because it didn’t matter. Father was going to pick her husband, anyway, and Catelyn trusted Father would pick the best person because she was his little cat.

 

“Someone like Father,” said Catelyn finally.

 

Lysa burst into laughter. “Like Father?”

 

“Yes,” said Catelyn. Somebody like Father, who was brave and kind and good to his people. Someone who was strong but could be gentle, and had an infectious laugh, and when he looked at Catelyn he would smile a smile all for her. Catelyn didn’t think any of the other things would matter.

 

Anyhow, all of that was still a while away.

 

 


	2. Mormonts: Dacey's Mom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Dacey’s mom has got it going on... 
> 
> (a.k.a. Just another day at the Mormont house)

  
“DACEY! ALYSANE! LYRA! JORY! TIME TO GET UP!”

 

Maege’s shouting just got the baby crying again. “Shush, shush,” she muttered to the babe, adjusting the strap of the cloth that held Lyanna to Maege’s breast, and with the other hand she shoved more firewood into the stove.

 

By the time she was done with the soup, still no sounds except the baby’s mewling.

 

“Those brats.” Maege slammed her iron spoon down on the table, making a loud clanging sound. The baby surprisingly didn’t start crying. Thank the gods. Lyanna was finally adjusting. “I SWEAR, IF YOU GIRLS MAKE ME GO UP THERE-”

 

“We’re up, we’re up,” said a chorus of voices as light footsteps came pattering down the hall.

 

Dacey led at the front, yawning, barefoot again. Maege had long since given up on getting her eldest to put some damn shoes on her skinny feet. Jory was not far behind, running and eager, yelling, “I’m hungry, Ma!” Lyra was trying to work tangles out of her hair. A lost cause if Maege ever saw one, but the girl would learn soon enough. Bringing up the rear was Alysane, plump Alysane, who tended to move like a sloth in the mornings. That one takes after me the most, thought Maege grimly. Well, a few brats of her own would get her muscled up and moving quick. Lucky for her it won’t happen for a number of years, though. It better not.

 

“Mother, the egg’s burnt,” said Lyra.

 

“Deal with it,” grumbled Maege.

 

Dacey sniggered.

 

“What?” demanded Lyra.

 

“You’re so adorable,” said Dacey, patting Lyra on the head.

 

“I am not!” said Lyra in all outrage. “What did I _do_?”

 

Alysane caught Dacey’s eye and chimed in. “The way you’re holding your cup, your pinky like that? You’re like a queen. Or a princess. So dainty.”

 

“And she says ‘Mother’ so _proper_ ,” added Dacey. “Princess Lyra.”

 

“Shut UP!”

 

“Girls,” commanded Maege, but of course it was no use. Lyra was worked up already. Gods know that only made Alysane and Dacey go at it worse. Maege’s attention couldn’t be spared for long, however. Her eyes roamed to Jory and she nearly broke a blood vessel yanking the little girl back onto her chair. “Where do you think you’re touching?”

 

“But it’s so bright and pretty!” Jory whined, pointing at the flames.

 

Maege suppressed a groan. Sometimes she wondered if she should be worried about this child’s obsession with fire. The Mormonts couldn’t have any Targaryen blood running loose, could they?

 

“You girls know what you’re doing today?” she asked them, sitting down and sharpening a knife that had gone blunt.

 

“I’m teaching Alys the bow again,” said Dacey, “‘cause she’s so _bad_ at it.”

 

“I’m better at the axe than you,” retorted Alysane.

 

Maege ignored them. “You, Lyra?”

 

“Jorah is taking me fishing,” said Lyra.

 

“So he says,” said Dacey under her breath, but Maege caught it.

 

“If he’s not too busy buying flowers for _Lynesse_ ,” said Alysane. She didn’t even bother to keep her voice down.

 

“I like Lynesse,” Jory interjected. “She smells nice. But she’s not very fun. She never wants to play Pebble-Catch with me. Can I go fishing too, Mama?”

 

“You’re too young,” Maege told her. “You’re staying here and helping me where I can keep an eye on you.”

 

“Awww,” said Jory, getting ready to go into a tantrum.

 

Maege stuffed a piece of bread in her mouth before she could. “Alright then. When you’re done, wash up and get going. I have to change Lyanna.” She went over to give her girls a hug, but they started yelping.

 

“Gross, Ma, don’t touch me when Lyanna’s soiled!”

 

“I can smell it!”

 

“Ma, I’m still _eating_!”

 

Maege rolled her eyes and cuffed her girls on the head instead. “You stinking brats,” she commented, evoking a wave of offended shouts in return. Chuckling, Maege left the room.

 


	3. Obara: All She Had

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Obara misses her mother.

She had not been a good mother. More than once she had struck Obara in the face, said, “Why? Why me? I never wanted this, I never wanted you!” Then she would start weeping and that was always the worst. And the madam of the whorehouse would pound on the doors and Obara had to be the one who gave her mother some milk of the poppy to get her to sleep.

 

The day Father appeared, Mother cried too. The spear or the tears? Obara did not have to pause to think. She went to stand by Father, Father with his piercing viper eyes and strong stance. He knelt down so that he was at her height and only then did Obara see a hint of smile on his face. Behind her, Mother cried and cried, but Obara ceased to hear her.

 

Father lifted Obara on his horse and the two of them rode away. Obara did not look back.

 

But she wondered, anyway, if her mother was watching from the window.

 

She hoped.

 

Her new home was in Sunspear and there began her new life. At first things were jarring and strange and each time she awoke in bed, she kept her eyes screwed shut, afraid that when she opened them she would find herself back in the brothel again, everything having been a dream. The food was hot and too spicy on her tongue; her skin broke into rashes under the desert sun; and Father, despite those soft smiles on his face when he looked at her, was a stranger. She could not trust him. She couldn’t help it. One of the first things she ever learned as a child was that men lied. Men pretended.

 

She did not know when exactly things changed. Maybe it was seeing her little sisters smile so brightly when they shouted Obara’s name. Maybe it was the master-at-arms nodding in approval at her defeating bigger and older boys with the spear. Maybe it was Father continuing to tuck her in at night and kiss her on the forehead, though Obara was a girl flowered and too old for that. She never smiled and spoke so little some servants called her mute behind her back. But Father didn’t seem to care. He had a kiss for her every night.

 

Soon she did not wake up in the mornings in fear.

 

Word reached Obara not long after her thirteenth name day. They said Mother was dead, drunk to death, and still weeping on her last breath.

 

Obara was not surprised.

 

Father joined her at the balcony. “You were all she had,” he said, and Obara did not flinch away when he laid a hand on her shoulder. By then she had heard what the songs sang of Father’s sister.

 

Like Father, she did not cry. Martells did not grieve through tears, and she was a Martell even if she didn’t share the name. But she closed her eyes. And she let herself remember her mother: the slaps, the angry hisses, the bitter weeping, yes, but the laugh too, the warm hand on her hair, even if those came by rare.

 

_I was all she had. She was all I had._

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now I'm sad T_T


	4. Robb, Arya: Don't Mess with Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: When I was little and would get picked on I would always think how when I told my big brother, he would come and tell every bully off, and he always did. So I just want something - ANYTHING - with Robb (and Jon too if you want) defending his sisters (in-canon or modern AU).
> 
> *Loosely interpreted "bullies"... xD... also this was more Robb and Arya exclusive - sorry Sansa!*

Robb was twelve when he overheard Jeyne Poole call Arya “Horseface.” It was during dinner and only by pure chance did he hear it over the multitude of voices. He turned away from Jon to face the steward’s daughter. He said to her coldly, "Pardon? Would you mind repeating that?"

Jeyne Poole blinked. She was nine years old and shy around boys, but most of the time boys were kind to her because she was pretty. No boy had ever spoken to her so... so _harsh_ like that, or... or _glared_ at her like that... especially not Lord Robb.

She flushed crimson red. "I didn't-"

"You just called my sister 'Horseface.' Don't try to lie. I heard it."

"Robb," said Jon in a hushed, nervous voice. He nudged Robb in the ribs. Robb ignored him. Mother was too preoccupied in her conversation with Father at the high table, anyone could see that.

Sansa came to her friend's rescue, sitting up straight in her chair. "You are frightening her, Robb. That is not very nice."

"I'll be nice when she learns to be," said Robb. Jeyne ducked her head; she was getting close to tears, Robb knew, but he hardly cared.

"Well then, how come you said nothing when Arya called Jeyne 'pig-nosed?'" Sansa asked primly.

Robb glanced at Arya, who was sitting there chewing her lip, oddly silent up to now, and seemingly engrossed in her pie. Classic guilty face which Robb had seen a million times. He looked back at his other sister, who waited expectantly with her chin tilted up, her hands folded in her lap - copying Mother, was she? "Well," said Robb, crossing his arms, "Arya is my sister and Jeyne is not."

From the corner of his eye he saw Arya glance up from her plate. When he sneaked a peek over, he saw that Arya had one hand on her cheek. Classic trying-to-fight-a-smirk-face.

Robb fought to hide his, too.

Sansa looked highly affronted as she pulled Jeyne close. "I am your sister too, if you haven't forgotten," she said with as much dignity as she could muster, "and you've made _my_ friend cry."

"Make better friends next time, then," said Robb.

Arya had reached her limit; she burst out laughing.

"I am telling Mother," cried Sansa, sweeping from the table. "Come, Jeyne."

"Godspeed," said Robb cheerfully, unable to resist his own chuckles.

From across the table, Jon shook his head grimly. Already Robb could see Sansa rushing to Catelyn's side, whispering in her ear, and promptly Mother shot Robb her trademark disapproving look. Robb shrugged in response and gave Mother _his_ trademark toothy smile, and sure enough, Mother rolled her eyes in an exasperated what-am-I-to-do-with-you way. Robb knew the worst of it was over.

But what made all of it the _most_ worth it?

As Arya passed Robb after finishing her meal, she reached out her little hand behind her back, and Robb, without having to make eye contact, slapped her hand from behind his.

It was their secret signal as well as their one true motto:

_Anyone who picks on one of us picks a fight with both of us._

 


	5. Shireen: King's Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: During Robert's reign Shireen comes to King's Landing for Joffrey's name day (or whatever). Her interacting with her extended family, getting prettied up for the party, realizing for the first time what her scars mean.

On the trip to King's Landing, Shireen could not sit still. She kept asking Mother if they were there yet, and she knew Mother was getting annoyed, but she couldn't help it. The stories about this mysterious city where the king and queen lived were just too beautiful. And she had never been to a tourney before! From what Devan and Edric said, tourneys were just _splendid_. Oh, if only they could be here. But Mother said it wasn't in their "stations" to come along. Shireen didn't know what that meant but she decided she would just have to pay extra attention so she could tell her friends _everything_.

So when Shireen first heard loud noises outside her litter and smelled the delicious smell of sweet pastries - she wasted no time in crawling to the window of her litter, reaching to part the curtains-

"No, Shireen," Mother said sharply.

"But Mother-"

"I said _no_. Now you sit back here and stay put."

Shireen bit her lip but she listened because Mother only liked good children who behaved. And it wasn't too bad to sit still because Patches sang Shireen a song about the sea. And Patches was always funny.

After two songs, the litter jolted to a stop. Trumpets sounded outside. "Are we here now?" she whispered to herself, afraid to be wrong.

The door to the litter opened and Mother grabbed Shireen by the wrist. When she pulled Shireen forward that hurt a little, but Shireen didn't mind. She was finally here, at last!

She climbed out of the litter, taking care not to dirty her pretty dress. (And it was a pretty dress; pink silk with a silver ribbon on the back - Shireen had picked it!) The sunlight was bright in her eyes but when she got over it she could not stop drinking in the sights. Oh, she must be in the castle, where the court was!

And... and... there was the king and queen!

"Shireen," muttered Mother.

Shireen realized she was acting silly. Of course, a lady was supposed to curtsy and greet the king and queen properly, not stare like that with her mouth open.

"Your Grace," said Shireen, curtsying.

She tried not to stare but it was so _hard_. The queen's hair shone like real gold, and- and it was like she glowed- and Uncle Robert, even though he was fatter than she had imagined, he was laughing like he was so happy to see her-

"What's wrong with her face?"

Shireen blinked. The person who spoke was a boy with golden curls. He was much taller than Shireen - even taller than Edric - but he didn't look that much older. He had rather girly-looking lips.

Uncle Robert had stopped laughing, Shireen noticed.

"My son," said the queen, putting her arm around the boy. She smiled at Shireen; her teeth were very white. "This is your cousin Joffrey, Shireen. He is-"

"Mother, I asked a _question_ ," said Joffrey, pushing her away. He pointed at Shireen. "What's wrong with her _face_? Someone tell me!"

Mother had gone very stiff, Shireen noticed.

"Take him away, Jon," said Uncle Robert, and then a white-haired old man walked over to Joffrey, and then Joffrey started to shriek, and then Queen Cersei started to say something to Uncle Robert-

But Shireen didn't get to watch for much longer, because at that moment Father - and Shireen did not know when Father got here - took Shireen by the arm and steered her into the castle.

"Father?" asked Shireen, frightened. Everyone was angry, it seemed, and everyone had been so happy a short while ago.

And it had only started when Joffrey had asked about Shireen's face.

She touched her cheek, at the dry, cold skin. Back in Dragonstone Maester Cressen had explained to her it was caused by something called greyscale, but he had never said that it was _wrong_ to have it. Now she could see, though, that it was wrong. It was wrong and bad. It must be why Mother wouldn't let Shireen part the curtains. It must be why Mother never put her arm around Shireen like the queen did to Joffrey. It must be why Father- why Father never laughed like Uncle Robert did.

She looked at Father. Father, as usual, did not say anything. The only indication he gave that he heard Shireen was a tightening grip on her arm. It hurt a little bit, but Shireen did not protest. She was a bad girl and it was right for her to hurt. She was finally starting to understand.

 

 


	6. Elia/Jaime: Only the Gods Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: she's the bravest person he's ever met.

“Look at them,” Cersei whispered in his ears, “they’re _Dornish_.” She said this with a wrinkle of her nose, like she smelled something foul.

Jaime looked. The boy was a head taller than him (but Jaime will be even taller when he gets to that age, just wait), dark hair and brown-tinted skin, laughing at something his sister said. She stood next to him, small and pale in comparison, though her hair was just as black and thick, her smile just as wide. As if she felt Jaime staring, she turned and - to Jaime’s shock - winked.

He looked away instantly, not knowing what to make of her. Make of _them._ Cersei obviously didn’t like them. Neither did Father (but then again Father didn’t seem to like much these days, not after Mother died).

He peeked back at the strange girl with the orange sun for a sigil. Elia Martell, she was called. And Jaime noticed that her eyes, though black like her hair, were bright.

\---

Years later when he saw Elia Martell again, he _was_ taller, two heads taller than he had been at nine, a man grown. But Elia... she hadn’t seemed to change.

At first his heart twisted in pity. Elia, now Targaryen princess, still looked more child than woman, coughing into her handkerchief every so often, leaning on her escort as she walked. Next to the famous beauty Ashara Dayne she drew even less attention, like if you didn’t know to look you wouldn’t even know she was there.

But then Jaime’s gaze unwittingly met hers in the crowd as Ser Hightower drew the white cloak around his shoulders, she winked. Just like that day six years ago, with a half-smile playing on her lips. And he knew that even if everything else was different - and would be different, now that he had forsaken his home forever to serve a king in a new city - _she_ was ever the same.

Pity changed to relief.

\---

The servants whispered. The court ladies and lords exchanged looks behind her back. The scummy ones even laughed under their breath. But if she heard these at all, she didn’t show it.

The king openly jeered her. The prince came to visit her room less and less. Bards sang of a wolf and a dragon, the sun-princess forgotten. But if she cared at all, she didn’t show it.

If it had been Cersei, she would have torn _something_ to shreds - most likely the Stark girl, even Rhaegar, prince or not, and any white cloak who tried to stand in her way.

But Elia was not Cersei.

All the time Jaime had seen her, whether far away or up close, she carried on in calm and grace. Even in those days her body failed her so badly she couldn’t stand without feeling faint, she would sit there reading Rhaenys a story or work on embroidery, always with a laugh to spare and her bright-dark eyes shining.

It was those moments, with her black hair catching the light and her thin shoulders held straight, she looked a true princess.

Almost a queen.

\---

Burnt flesh. Everywhere he went, the stench filled his nostrils, scratched his throat, plunged his guts and stayed there.

“Ser Jaime?” Elia said.

He closed his eyes and tried to breathe, but behind his eyelids swam the wolf boy with his strangled cry. “How do you do it?” he asked without thinking.

His lady was quiet but she seemed to understand. The two of them watched little Rhaenys run in the garden, chasing her kitten. _Such innocence. How long will it stay?_   “It’s not easy,” she said finally, and for once the softness was gone from her voice and he heard the steel within. “But I have no choice. I have to live.”

She was staring at her daughter when she said it, but her hand was on the swell of her stomach.

\---

War had found its way to their doorstep and the time for decisions had come. But Jaime was never good with decisions. Deciding wasn’t his style; only _doing_.

Yet he found himself wondering if Cersei was here, or Father, or Tyrion - what would they do?

But it was not any of them who, in the end, gave him the answer.

“You do what is right,” she said simply.

“What _is_ right?” he asked bitterly.

“Only the gods know, little lion.” There was the moniker she gave him. For some reason he never minded, maybe because she always said that with her half-smile. “The gods, and you, in here.” She touched him gently on the chest, above his heart, and he felt it even through the armor.

He walked away after that, not knowing it would be the last he saw her.

\---

When it was all over and Jaime was left standing, his soul and sword bloodied, he asked her in his head why when he did what _felt_ right no one else seemed to agree.

_Only the gods know, little lion,_ he imagined her saying, and he could only imagine because she wasn’t here to ever talk to him or look at him or speak to him again. Because while he had been doing the _right_ thing, his father’s man had raped her and killed her and the children she had been so determined to live for.

He thought less and less of her as the years went by, time taking the memories of his greatest sin and burying them. But once or twice looking up at a blazing summer sun he would remember.

He would remember a sun-princess whose gaze dark as night could somehow burn as hot as the flames that never touched her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not really a steaming romance the prompter probably wanted... just implied (if even). I guess I'm only suited to write Gen fics. >_> also, so much Elia feels right now. oh no!!!


	7. Arianne/Robb: Worst comes to Worst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: They wake up in Las Vegas with wedding rings on their fingers, and a brand-new tatoos. Arianne's got a wolf's head, while Robb's got a sun-and-spear, and bonus if the tats are someplace not exactly fit for public consumption.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never written a modern AU for ASOIAF before. Also this was the randomest ship I have ever seen. Well I'm trying to be adventurous xD
> 
> Happy July 4th!

Room service knocking was what woke them up. Too distracted by their head-splitting hangovers, neither really noticed the other until Arianne accidentally kicked Robb in the shin. Then there was shuffling out of the covers and, comprehension. Robb spent the next minute sputtering and turning red, Arianne spent it trying not to laugh at his reaction.

 

"Last night..." Robb managed to coherently piece.

 

Arianne said honestly, "I don't really remember much."

 

Well, she remembered meeting him at the club her cousins took her to, already a bit happy-drunk by then. A bunch of guys tried to come on to her, all losers and perverts. Then he popped up dressed in a grey button-down and she thought, _geek_ , before Tyene whispered, "That's Ned Stark's son!" which translated into money. But Arianne was not that short on money; even if her father wasn't the head of a million-dollar enterprise he was still successful. No, the smile was what did it - shy at first, then when you got close kind of wild, kind of wolfish.

 

Robb was crestfallen to hear this. His last clear memory was pounding his fifth shot of tequila and Theon saying, "Go for it, dude," and shoving him towards Arianne. After that it was just a lot of loud music, Arianne's pretty laugh and someone whooping (oh God, he hoped that hadn’t been _him_ dancing on the table).

 

Arianne assured him it was okay. Based on Arianne's past experiences, like as not they had just made out a lot, sloshed some more booze and stumbled their way to the nearest hotel. Worst comes to worst they shagged in a bathroom and didn't use a condom. Don't worry, she was on the pill.

 

**

 

Although none of them knew where they were and their respective friends probably thought they had been kidnapped or murdered, both of them felt really gross so the next most logical course of action was a shower.

 

Arianne suggested they take it together. To save time and water, she very sensibly pointed out. But Robb was too sobered up to say yes, which he regretted immediately, but Arianne was already smiling and sashaying to the bathroom wearing absolutely nothing.

 

He tried to do the gentleman thing and look away, but come on. But it turned out not to be a good decision for many reasons.

 

"FUCK!"

 

Arianne looked back, amused. What was up now? She saw a horrified Robb pointing at her. "No, turn around," he said, "there's a - fuck, _fuck_."

 

She still wasn't getting it until he jumped out of bed, all modesty strangely forgotten, angled his body in a way that made her raise her eyebrows and demanded, "Do I have one too?"

 

Then she saw, and her mouth formed a small _o_.

 

**

 

Arianne told him it wasn't as bad as it seemed because at least, no one was gonna be looking there unless under, um, special circumstances.

 

Robb was meanwhile just incredulous why he didn't even _remember_ getting one - there - in the first place. They said tattoos were supposed to be painful and you would think especially _there_... He was sorely tempted to run in front of the mirror and examine his other private areas for piercings.

 

But it wasn't like there wasn't this thing called tattoo removal, Arianne continued, although that required a lot of money and letting someone else look at it. She didn't mention the latter part but Robb knew it anyway.

 

And anyway, she added, it also wasn’t like they had tattooed each other’s names or anything. _That_ would have been embarrassing.

 

Robb sighed. Lucky for him there was an empty glass and a fridge stocked with iced water and he lunged for it gratefully.

 

He had just taken a deep gulp of cold refreshing water and was feeling calm and much like himself when Arianne, having gone to resume her shower after all, exited the bathroom rather quickly. Robb was impressed at her speed of showering until he noticed that her hair was still dry and that her face was as pale as her fluffy white towel.

 

Robb had a bad feeling.

 

"Found these in the sink," she said and opened her palm. Two tiny glittery things caught the light. "Plus a wedding veil and a suit in the bathtub."

 

**

 

Robb was never, ever, going on a road trip with Theon again.

 

Arianne was thinking, oh, so he is wearing his boxers. She glanced back into the bathroom. Then whose black men’s briefs were _those_?

  
  
  



	8. Tyrion, Myrcella, Tommen: Dragons and Knights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Tyrion tries his best to be a good uncle, but there are some hurdles and he isn't very tall to jump over them.
> 
> (My fill turned out fluffier than the prompt I'm afraid...)

“Uncle Tyrion, will you play with us?”  
  
His little niece and nephew were looking at him so eagerly, pure innocence and smiles. Tyrion inwardly groaned. Curse the eyes of children. “I suppose I can spare a few minutes of my busy day,” he said, pretending to look tired. In truth, his day had so far consisted of nothing but sleeping, breaking fast, and goading his sister Cersei.  
  
Well, the last one did take a lot of energy because it was Cersei.  
  
“Yay!” said Tommen happily. “Now we have a dragon!”  
  
Wait... dragon?  
  
“We haven’t asked Uncle Tyrion if he wants to play the dragon,” said Myrcella, and Tyrion could have kissed her. Really, not a day went by when he wondered how in the world Myrcella could be related to any of them. Tyrion liked to think maybe Myrcella was channeling more of Joanna Lannister’s spirit.   
  
“Do you want to play the dragon?” asked Tommen dutifully, clutching Tyrion’s arm. Tommen was one of the precious few who was shorter than Tyrion - not for long, of course, and it was hardly satisfying that Tyrion got to be an inch taller than his six-year-old nephew. But it was still something.  
  
Tyrion pretended to sigh. “Ah, but if I’m the dragon then who will you be?”  
  
“I’m Aemon the Dragonknight,” said Tommen, puffing out his little chest, “and Myrcella is the princess Naerys.”  
  
Right, the Dragonknight and the sister he loved dearly even though she was wed to her brother - their brother - honestly, all these Targaryen family dramas could give you the worst [headache](http://asoiafkinkmeme.livejournal.com/14808.html?thread=9164504), what with all the complicated names repeated all the time. “I see. Does the dragon capture the princess, hold her in a tower and the Dragonknight must save her?”  
  
Tyrion did not mind playing the monster; he had always been one in his father’s eyes anyway. In most people’s eyes, for that matter.  
  
But Tommen stared at Tyrion like he doubted Tyrion’s sanity.  
  
“No way! Dragons are good, they wouldn’t do that!” Tommen cried, aghast.  
  
“And Princess Naerys is a Targaryen,” added Myrcella patiently, “so she has the blood of the dragon. The dragon is her family and families won’t hurt one of their own.”  
  
Would I say the same for my family, thought Tyrion. But to his nephew and niece he just said, “True, very true. Pardon me, my princess, my knight. I am your loyal dragon at your service. What will you have me do?”  
  
Tommen and Myrcella looked at each other, sharing a giggle that rather warmed Tyrion’s evil black heart, he had to admit.   
  
Thirty minutes later, he reconsidered this. “Charge, dragon, charge! Breathe your fire!” Tommen was shouting, riding on Tyrion’s back as Tyrion tried his best to shoulder the chubby boy’s weight. Myrcella waved her handkerchief from a makeshift fort made of pillows and blankets, calling, “Dear dragon, hurry! I’ve found the treasure, and we must flee before the dark wizard catches us!”  
  
To be an uncle, Tyrion supposed, came not without a price.  
  
After he collapsed on his short stumpy legs and Tommen clambered off his back, the two children hugged Tyrion, laughing and cheering. “Thank you, dragon, for saving us,” said Myrcella, kissing Tyrion on the cheek.  
  
Oh well, thought Tyrion, he has paid worse prices.

 


	9. Jon, Sansa: A Day in the Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Robb isn't always around when she needs someone strong to protect her. Jon wants to help about as much as she wants to ask, but they both know that despite everything...he is still her big brother.

Today was Robb’s thirteenth name day and he was permitted to lead a hunt with Jory and the others. That morning he left practically glowing with pride. Jon was almost thirteen too but he doubted he would be able to lead a hunt on his name day. He was only a bastard after all, and besides celebrating his name day was an insult to Lady Catelyn.  
  
The snow let him forget it, though. He spent the morning in a snowball fight with Arya and Bran. When they got tired of rolling up snowballs they played Hide-and-Seek in the godswood. Bran won that, naturally, and Arya kept arguing that treetops should be off-limits.   
  
Later even Sansa came out to join them. “Where’s your dumb friend Jeyne?” asked Arya.  
  
Sansa sniffed. “Jeyne is sick, and you shouldn’t call her dumb, that isn’t polite.”  
  
“This isn’t either,” said Arya wickedly, and shoved snow down her sister’s neck.  
  
Jon and Bran laughed as Sansa screamed and chased after Arya. It was always funny to see their composed “lady” sister lose her cool.  
  
By noon everyone’s fingers were frozen stiff and stomachs rumbled for food. Arya, as usual, led the way back at lightning-speed while Bran preferred the scenic route, shimmying up the castle wall like the squirrel that he was. Jon followed at a more leisurely pace. If Robb were here he would race Jon, but he wasn’t, instead probably riding alongside stupid Theon Greyjoy right now. While Jon walked alone.  
  
Alone...?  
  
He looked around. Sansa had been not far ahead only a few minutes ago, but now she was nowhere to be seen. Her auburn hair made her easy to spot in this snow, too...  
  
Maybe she’d sped up walking so she had reached the castle by now. Gods know she wouldn’t want to return only a few steps ahead, lest the servants think she was walking back together with her “half-brother.”  
  
Jon nodded. That had to be it. He took a step forward, then another.  
  
But he thought he heard a rustle behind him.  
  
He cursed under his breath and turned around, squinting into the godswood. “Sansa,” he yelled. “Are you there?”  
  
Silence. Then, faintly a voice replied from behind the trees, “Jon?”  
  
“What are you doing there? Come on. You can play after lunch.”  
  
“I know that,” Sansa said, sounding peeved. Jon rolled his eyes - just who had more reason to be annoyed here? “But... I... You go. You go ahead.”  
  
Jon was feeling more and more annoyed by the second. Arya was stubborn too, but at least she made sense. “Fine, I’ll go.”  
  
“Yes,  _go_.”  
  
He found Sansa sitting by some bushes, clutching her ankle, eyes rimmed red. She opened her mouth in surprise when she saw him, then closed it instantly and looked away.  
  
Jon wondered why he even bothered. Robb, this is all your fault, you should be the one here, he thought. “Did you slip?” he asked, crouching down beside Sansa.  
  
Reluctantly, she nodded. “On the ice,” she mumbled, forgetting to speak clearly in a ladylike way.  
  
“Let me see it.”  
  
She clutched her ankle closer. “It’s fine. I just need to rest a little bit, then I can-”  
  
“You’re as difficult as Arya sometimes. Let me see it.”  
  
That earned him a glare - ironically even more reminiscent of Arya - but she obliged. Jon didn’t have to look long, though. The size of the lump was as big as an egg. A wonder she wasn’t crying her eyes out, but that might just be because she wouldn’t want  _him_  to see. “You sprained it,” he told her. He’d done it himself before, tripping down the stairs one time. “Maester Luwin can give you some ice and a bandage.”  
  
She looked hopeful. “So it isn’t that bad?”  
  
“You won’t lose a foot, sure, but you can’t walk. Not for a day at least.”  
  
“Oh,” she said. “Then...”  
  
Jon decided to spare her the embarrassment, mostly because it would take her all day to ask him for help. “I’ll take you back,” he said. “Take my arm and try to stand.”  
  
Sansa glanced to her left and to her right, weighing her options. Listen to Jon and she could go back and receive the attention she needs; wait in the cold for Jon to send for help while spiders and who knows what else could crawl into her hair. Her decision was made. She grabbed hold of Jon’s arm and slowly rose to her feet, wincing at the pain. Jon grasped her elbow and they started to work their way back.

It was probably the longest and most awkward walk of Jon’s life, with neither of them saying anything. Normally Sansa had little to say to him anyway, determined to emulate her dear lady mother. And Jon definitely had no desire to chat about tea parties and gossip.  
  
Finally, the gate loomed into view, and Harwin, standing guard, took Sansa’s other arm as Jon informed him on what happened.  
  
“I’ll get the maester,” said Harwin when they were inside, rushing off before Jon could volunteer to go instead.  
  
Jon looked at the ceiling, wondering if today could get any worse.  
  
Just then Sansa’s grip on his arm tightened and Jon looked over, expecting to hear her complain or something. But Sansa was looking at him straight in the eye - which she rarely did - and said, “Thank you, Jon. That... that was gallant of you.”  
  
She broke eye contact immediately as Maester Luwin appeared and was still blushing furiously when Jon took leave. Jon turned the corner of the corridor, heading back to his room - and only then, did he allow himself to smile.


	10. Nymeria, Tyene: Viper's Daughters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: What do the Sand Snakes get up to in King's Landing?
> 
> (Oh man, I wish I knew!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ADWD spoilers and this is set post-ADWD

 

Nym arrived on what seemed to be most _convenient_ timing.  The Lord Regent was dead and in his wake was a mess of floundering fools. It was easy, too easy. Nym smiled pleasantly everywhere she went, licking her lips just so, oiling her words in flattering silk so lavishly the receiving party always looked half-pleased, half-uncertain.

 

Uncle had warned her King’s Landing would be a pit of snakes. Snakes? More like runny worms. Mace Tyrell flushed pink and purple, whether more discomfited by Nym’s cleavage or the station of her birth it was hard to tell. Qyburn shuffled around, a shade more dangerous but with all the wits of a Lannister dog. Tarly glowered, a joyless twat with clearly a _very_ neglected cock, the poor guy; Master of Ships and Master of Coins sadly elsewhere and deprived the grace of Nym’s presence; that leaves, who... but the queen?

 

Our lovely queen, thought Nym. Her fingers twitched for the familiar feel of a dagger when eyeing the Lannister bitch’s white pearly neck. Ten there, twenty more in that soft belly, and one each thrust in those glittering green eyes...

 

 _I will remind you one last time, niece,_ Uncle Doran’s raspy voice echoed in Nym’s head, _of prudence_. Nym tossed back her hair in annoyance. Yes, Uncle, I know. But every day, walking by the yard below where the monster Mountain had murdered her father... Rage seared her throat and she longed to rake trails of blood, patience be fucked. _Your father forgot patience,_ Uncle Doran’s voice would whisper again, _and that mistake cost him his life._

 

Nym gritted her teeth. She hated it when boring weak Uncle Doran was right. Right about all things except for one. The Red Viper had made no mistake. If he hadn’t jumped into the fighting ring then he wasn’t the man Nymeria and her sisters loved. The only regret Father suffered was that he only managed to take one down with him.

 

 _Then I will finish your job, Father,_ Nym swore. _I will make them all bleed for the wrongs they have done to our family, to Dorne._

 

In the meantime she would have to keep her fangs hidden. But soon. Soon, that day will come, as long as Nym had breath left in her.

 

With one last burning look at the site where Father died, Nym swept away.

 

\--

 

Tyene looked up askance at her reflection. It was a shame she had to tuck away her cornsilk-blond hair, but she liked that the veil dimmed the blue of her eyes. She stepped back and the white skirt of her woolen swished over her feet. It was a little big on her, but the loose sleeves made her hands appear so delicate.

 

She allowed herself one dimpled smile before leaving the chamber.

 

Outside, she joined the rest of the novice girls on their way to morning service. No one paid her much heed until she reached the chapel, when she stopped before Septa Helicent, counting roll at the door. “Clara?” she asked, putting a hand on Tyene’s shoulder. “How do you feel, dear? I heard you were quite sick these past days.”

 

Tyene made the shape of the star with her fingers.

 

“Yes, may the Seven continue to watch over you,” said the septa, returning the sign. “They hear your prayers, gentle one.”

 

Tyene raised one hand to the ceiling and mimed a long beard with her other.

 

Septa Helicent chuckled. “My child, His Holiness is more concerned about your health than lacking a person to pour him tea.” She squinted. “Are you certain you have recovered fully? You still look rather pale and thin.”

 

Tyene let a muffled sound come from her throat as she nodded vehemently.

 

The septa sighed. “Well, if you insist, you may return to your duties today.”

 

As Tyene entered the chapel she heard Septa Helicent whisper to Septa Aglantine, “What a sweet child, that Clara... the gods were kind to bring her to us, poor thing...”

 

 _Poor thing, indeed_ , thought Tyene. She felt a twinge of pity for the mute orphan, but in gratitude at least Tyene had given Clara a painless death, if she couldn’t grant Clara a body for burial. The dose had been a customized mix of several poisons Tyene had experimented over the years with occasional input from Father.

 

 _Father._ Even now, the thought of him numbed Tyene in the pit of her guts, as if she had suddenly swallowed Night Frog venom. At her seat in the pew, Tyene bent over her copy of the Seven-Pointed Star. _It is for Father that I am here,_ she reminded herself. _And it is for him that I do not fail._

 

When she looked up again, it was with the face of Clara, and when the voices around her rose in the words of the faith, it was Clara who opened her mouth and soundlessly formed the same.

 

But in her heart it was Tyene who repeated, _Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken._

 


	11. Shireen, Stannis: Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Someone (I don't care who, Renly, Robert, Cersei, Tywin) says something mean about Shireen's looks and Stannis is having none of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't exactly Stannis going Hulk!Daddy but i hope OP likes this anyway.

“Shireen?”

His daughter approached Stannis, but her gaze was trained on the floor. Stannis was not surprised. He had grown used to most people in his life trying their best to avoid his eyes; he’d been told that his eyes were “hard,” and “cold,” and those were the nicer descriptives.

Stannis cleared his throat, looking at Davos. Davos was one of the few who didn’t mind staring at Stannis straight in the eye, but unfortunately, that also meant Davos was equally good at making Stannis uncomfortable, like at this moment. Davos didn’t need to speak. His stare said too simply, _you will get no help from me, Your Grace, not in this. You are Shireen’s father, not I._

Stannis, not for the first time, wished Davos really was Shireen’s father. Shireen would prefer that, to be sure.

“Shireen,” Stannis said again, trying his hardest to sound calm and patient, instead of irritated and angry. He almost ground his teeth, but he caught himself in time. Shireen always froze up whenever Stannis ground his teeth in her presence; Selsye had complained that “when you do that, she thinks you’re angry at _her._ ” “Tell me. Who made you cry?”

Shireen mumbled something.

“Speak clearly, child.”

She glanced at him and then back at the floor. _I’ve frightened her again,_ thought Stannis. He had enough trouble dealing with grown men, much less women, but the worst was grappling how to handle children. His own child, the worst of all.

Shireen did speak up, however. “Nobody, Father.”

“Don’t lie to me. I do not tolerate lies from friends or foes, nor will I from my daughter.”

_Was that too harsh as well?_ But it was the truth. Shireen would do well to learn the sanctity of truth; soft-spoken lies are what build you for pain and failure, like when the septon had told Stannis that the gods would protect his parents on their voyage home.

Stannis thought that his daughter was going to cry again. Or he thought Shireen might run away to her room rather than put up with him any longer.

But Shireen surprised him. She raised her head and finally looked up at him with her blue eyes. “Father, you’re the rightful king in Westeros, aren’t you?”

Stannis frowned at the sudden change in subject. “Yes. By the laws of the realm, the throne is mine.”

”Then one day, I will be queen? If Mother doesn’t have a boy.”

Stannis’s impatience was growing by the minute, but he just nodded, watching his daughter warily.

The rest of Shireen’s words poured out in a rush.

“Father, what happens if—if no one likes me? How will I rule, if people hate me?”

Stannis stared at Shireen, who was clutching her hands tightly before her. She looked and sounded frightened as ever, but by now it occurred to Stannis that her fear was not directed at _him_.

(Without either father and daughter noticing, Davos had slipped quietly out of the room.)

“Why do you think people will hate you?”

“Because I’m ugly.” Shireen wiped at her eyes.

Many thoughts ran through Stannis’s head right then, particularly punishment for whichever loose-tongued scullery maid had planted such ideas in Shireen’s head. But the hypocrisy of it all struck Stannis. _I wanted her to face the truth, didn’t I?_ If a scullery maid had not said it today, then a lord or a lady would have said it tomorrow. It was human nature to spill lies just as it was human nature to speak truths, the unkindly ones more so.

Shireen was looking at him once more, her wide eyes free of resentment and bitterness. But was hope there? Did she expect Stannis to comfort her that no, she was pretty, that she was foolish to worry? That popularity and appearance did not go hand in hand where people were concerned?

Shireen was eleven; she was young, still a child.

_But I am not young, and I am fighting a war. Should I die, she will rule in my place one day. That she will. The throne is as much hers as it is mine._

Stannis sighed. He beckoned Shireen over. Shireen walked close to his chair, if hesitant at first.

“Listen carefully, Shireen, on what I am about to tell you.”

“Yes, Father.”

“You are right. You will be queen one day, and when you do, not everyone will love you. Not everyone might even like you. But you do not rule to be loved or liked. You rule to be just. You rule because it is your duty to the realm and to your subjects, not a right. If you rule, knowing this, you will earn your people’s loyalty and allegiance more than you will with a beautiful face. Do you understand?”

Shireen nodded. “I’ll be like you, Father.”

Stannis blinked.

“Because you’re just,” she said, “and that is why people follow you.”

_No, they follow me out of selfishness or else fear._ But Stannis decided to save that piece of unpleasant truth for another day.

“People do not love me,” conceded Stannis instead.

“ _I_ love you, Father.”

If it were anyone else Stannis would have grimaced at the shamelessness of such a lie. But looking into his daughter’s wide blue eyes, he knew she had meant every word. She was too young to know better.

“Are you done crying?” he said gruffly.

Shireen nodded.

“Then go back to your lessons.”

Shireen bobbed a curtsy, a small smile on her lips despite the curtness of his tone. As the door opened on her way out, Davos stepped back in.

Stannis focused on the papers before him and refrained from looking at Davos. The onion knight had no doubt heard everything from outside, but he picked up the cue from Stannis and said nothing.

Or so Stannis thought.

“That wasn’t too difficult, was it?” asked Davos, a moment later.

Stannis just glared at him.

 


	12. Renly, Stannis: Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Because no one else will tell him why, Renly asks Stannis why he doesn't want him to be with Loras. "Mace Tyrell tried to kill us when you were a boy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just had too much Stannis & Renly angsty feels.

“Renly, stay,” said Stannis. “I want a word with you.”

Littlefinger gave Renly a wry smile on his way out; Varys hid a giggle behind his perfumy sleeves. Renly sighed. He gloomily looked around, but Robert was of course nowhere to be seen; having not showed up for today’s council meeting (no surprise there), he was hardly like to show up when the meeting was over. It was a shame. Robert _always_ sided with Renly; nothing bonded the two of them better than a dour old hen like Stannis.

Renly had no choice, then, but to stay behind as all the other council members left, finally leaving just him and Stannis.

Gods save him. No one wants to be in a room alone with _Stannis._

“Look,” said Renly, holding up his hands. “I know that bit I said about your lady wife was a little out of line, but I was just—”

“This is not about Selyse.”

Renly paused. “Well,” he went on smoothly, “if this is about your brothel idea—I wasn’t the _only_ one who thought you were mad, even the Hand—”

“Renly, just be quiet,” snapped Stannis.

Gods, Renly hated it when Stannis talked down to him like that, as if Renly were still a little boy (Stannis was always trying to play Father on Renly, telling Renly to do this and do that)—but as Renly glared at his brother, something stilled the rebuke on his tongue.

Stannis looked… Well, he looked more upset than usual. Not just the typical I’m-Stannis-and-everyone-is-against-me kind of sulky upset, but actually _distraught_ kind of upset.

“Sit down,” said Stannis.

Renly slipped back into his seat, so puzzled he forgot about arguing.

Stannis folded his hands together, narrowing his eyes at Renly. As expected, he took a few moments to gnash his teeth until Renly’s ears were sufficiently sore. “I have heard about you… and your latest endeavor.”

_Endeavor._ Renly let that sink in, then he laughed as it suddenly clicked. So this was what Stannis was upset about.

“Why, brother, I have no idea what you mean,” he said, flashing Stannis one of his charming smiles.

Stannis being Stannis, he just gnashed his teeth harder. “Your squire, Renly. Loras Tyrell _._ ”

Renly crossed his arms. “Get on with your lecture before I fall asleep, then. Are you going to play the _he’s too young for you_ card? Loras is five-and-ten, and despite what you think, brother dear, two men can be together _both_ of their free will. My deviant _tastes,_ as you like to say, did not manipulate a poor, innocent soul into giving up the, ah, plushy peach for the—”

“That is not why I do not condone this relationship.”

“ _Condone_?” repeated Renly, spreading his hands wide. “Pardon me, Stannis, but when did I need your _condonation_ to put my cock where I want it?”

Stannis flushed, an amusing shade between red and purple.

“If you are trying to sway me towards what a woman has between her legs,” drawled Renly, “I think you should probably send someone else. You are _hardly_ the appropriate man to talk of pleasures between anyone’s legs at all—”

“ _Enough._ ”

Stannis had stood from his chair and slammed his hands down on the table all at once. A muscle in his jaw was twitching.

“Hard as it must be for you,” said Stannis, seemingly spitting out every word from between his grinding teeth, “at least save the mocking for _after_ you hear me speak.”

Renly rolled his eyes, picking at a stray piece of hair on his doublet.

“The reason why I dislike Loras Tyrell has nothing to do with his gender or his age. It has every reason to do with the fact that Loras is Mace Tyrell’s son.”

Renly looked up at Stannis.

“Mace Tyrell tried to kill us when you were a boy,” said Stannis quietly. “You may not remember, but I do.”

Renly glanced away. _I may not remember._ He scoffed silently. The long, unending days, trapped in the castle called home, the gnawing feeling of hunger that twisted your insides out, the taste of rat flesh, rough and dry on your tongue, not that you minded because you could eat anything, even human flesh if you had to; the dim knowledge that you might die like this (because yes, even a six-year-old was aware of this much)…

Oh, he remembered it, just not the way Stannis did. For Stannis that horrific year was his emblem, his medal of valor, his prized excuse to be bitter at the world, at Robert in particular. A memory to be flung in the faces of everyone to show that despite his grand display of iron will and justice, Stannis had held out only to be scorned and wronged. That was Stannis, always holding onto the bad and the worse, especially if it presented as a grievance against himself, and, well, if Renly chose not to do that, this apparently made him a naive empty-headed flowerpot.

“Loras is not his father,” said Renly.

“He is a Tyrell,” said Stannis.

“And all Tyrells are alike? All Tyrells want to kill us?”

“He is a Tyrell. That means his loyalty will always lie with his family first, not with you.”

“We are family,” pointed out Renly, “you, Robert, and I. Loras loves me more, I can assure you of that.”

That took Stannis aback. He stared at Renly. Renly stared back, daring Stannis to deny that it was true; that the three of them, the Baratheon brothers, actually loved each other like a family should. Robert, with his uproarious laughter but never a serious or caring moment. Stannis, with his constant gnashing of teeth, wearing his ideals on his sleeve, talking of _duty_ nonstop _,_ when his duty was to the realm, not to his brothers… Because the one time that he had chosen the latter, hadn’t it wrecked his life, and he never made anyone forget it? Didn’t he vocally resent Robert time and time again for passing him over as heir to Storm’s End; didn’t he—with every peevish glance—silently resent Renly for usurping his inheritance?

_I fight with my brothers, too,_ Loras had told Renly once. _Willas and Garlan can be a pain in the arse when they choose to be._

But it was easy enough, just looking at Loras’s smile when he spoke of his brothers, to know that even if the Tyrell brothers fought, they would always make up. They would always love and protect one another, would even give their lives for one another.

_Not the three of us._ Renly thought of the parents he never knew. Loss would have brought other families closer together, but not this one.

Renly shook his head, irritated at the string of melancholy thoughts. _This is what happens when you are in a room with Stannis for too long._ He got up, smoothing his clothing free of rumples.

“This has been a most enlightening conversation,” he said now, taking on a casual tone, which was what he did best, “but it’s been a long day and I wish to retire to my chambers. I suggest you do the same, brother.”

He gave a brief bow and headed to the door. As he reached for the handle, however, Stannis spoke from behind him. “Renly.”

Renly looked back over his shoulder. “Yes?”

Stannis just stared at him for one long, intense moment, gnashing his teeth. “Never mind,” he said finally, looking away.

 


End file.
